


Other Work For Us To Do

by mechaieh (ribbons)



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-13
Updated: 2008-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:59:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1642862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ribbons/pseuds/mechaieh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty years later, Will visits a museum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Other Work For Us To Do

**Author's Note:**

> Grateful thanks to Aunty Marion for the Britpick and beta.
> 
> Written for Bebe

 

 

Most weeks, Will Stanton seldom wandered south of the Thames. He spent most of his time in Islington, where he lived, and Hampstead, where he worked. His employment as a secondary school teacher took up much of his time and energy, leaving little to spare for visiting other parts of London. 

He periodically tried to make an effort, however, especially whenever he felt himself in danger of becoming too provincial in his habits and outlook. In spite of his larger identity and broader perspective as Merlin's watchman, it was too easy for his everyday world to become only about the school and his neighbourhood, even though he caught the news on the Beeb and sometimes picked up a copy of the _Grauniad_ to read on the Tube. The Old One in him knew that he would always instinctively have the Best Interests of the World at heart, but he was also conscious that the more of the world he directly interacted with, the better able he would be to further its best interests: he needed to be able to recognize other people's better natures should he ever need to appeal to them for help, should there ever be another Dark and another Rising to contend with.

At least, that was his general understanding. Averaging sixty hours a week with teenagers and their issues meant that there were more than a few moments every day when Will actively second-guessed his determination to interact directly with any of the world, never mind the rest of it. It was during one particularly bad week that Will received a note from a former student who was now an alto soloist at St Magnus the Martyr, a church near London Bridge on Lower Thames Street. 

A decade before, Will had helped the student cope with the sudden death of her parents, steering her through decisions such as the music and readings for the funeral and running interference when other adults had attempted to gainsay her choices. He'd consulted his memories of the services he'd sung in his youth -- for Mrs Horniman, Miss Bell, and other people more than ten years gone by then. The student had never forgotten Will's assistance, and she periodically invited him to her recitals, as well as to services at St Magnus that happened to feature anthems she knew to be among his favourites. 

It was the perfect antidote to a tiring week: the church was beautiful, and Will enjoyed the choir's rendition of "How lovely are thy dwellings fair" very much indeed, as well as the curry lunch that followed the service. It pleased him to see his former student doing so well, and he found it comforting to be regarded by both her husband and her small children as a friend -- especially during this part of the term, when so many of his students regarded him as The Enemy thanks to the homework assignments he so ruthlessly inflicted upon them.

As he departed from St Magnus after the lunch, he found that he was not quite in the mood to return to his flat just yet. He crossed London Bridge to the south side of the river, slowly strolling west on the paved riverside path as a light rain drizzled down. It was quiet but not deserted as he walked past the tall iron gates of the Globe Theatre and the little brick-and-glass eateries nearby. Every few minutes, a dedicated athlete or two rushed past him in a flurry of black- and brightly-coloured spandex and nylon. There was a photographer who appeared to be composing portraits of the assorted construction cranes visible above the buildings east of St. Magnus. There was a mother with a pram who seemed visibly relieved to be walking around outside, rain or no. There were several pairs of tourists: One couple seemed mesmerised by the boats and barges slowly gliding past, pointing out to each other the sharp prow of one and the puttering motor of another. He passed a second couple where both the man and woman were leaning silently against the waist-high wall of the path, watching the grey water slap against a set of concrete steps that led directly into the river. He overheard a third couple sixty yards away merrily debating the current chemical composition of the river; Will fleetingly thought about introducing himself to them -- there was a cheerful lilt to their argument that made him suddenly yearn to be a part of it -- but he quickly abandoned the notion, both because he wasn't desperate enough to insert himself into other people's conversations uninvited, and because the rain had started pelting down much harder. 

He hadn't planned on visiting the Tate Modern that afternoon, but it was much closer to him than the nearest Underground stop, and the drops of water felt less brutal on his skin when he turned his steps toward the museum: the temperature had dropped, and the rain stung like needles of ice when he tried to walk against it. It seemed almost as if he was being herded toward the long, broad concrete walkway and the giant, cheery banners along its wall ("Come in and explore..."), and Will muttered to himself, "So this is where the phrase _a driving rain_ comes from..." As he hurried up the dark grey ramp, his mind flitted back to the memory of a silver-eyed sheepdog on the side of a Welsh mountain, and the tall white birches to the left of the walk reminded him of another birch from a land long lost -- a much larger tree, that had had leaves of green instead of gold when he'd seen it. It brought back the sound of Bran Davies saying, _I never saw a birch tree out here before_ , and the self-mocking grin that had immediately followed that statement. _No -- nor a great glass tower either, nor a may-tree growing from a roof._

Will hadn't returned to Wales after that visit, nor had he stayed in touch with Bran. It was not something that boys tended to do. They hadn't had e-mail or mobile text messaging when they were teenagers, but judging from the students and colleagues Will had counselled and consoled over the years, his sense was that it was an all too common trait that technology hadn't really overcome: there was always so much going on, no matter who one might be, regardless of whether one was a schoolboy doggedly revising for A-levels or a middle-aged schoolteacher ploughing through dozens of essays and exams, or someone obsessed with football or music or politics or food, or someone simply engrossed in his or her ordinary routines and responsibilities. There were so many things clamouring for one's attention every single day, among the people one actually saw every day, that Will had never expected to maintain any special sort of contact with Bran or the Drews, and he hadn't. The student now with St Magnus was far more the exception than the rule: he received Christmas cards every year from a few others, and he enjoyed catching up with the ones who returned for reunions and other festive gatherings, but he knew he had already become a distant memory for most of their peers, never mind the people he himself had gone to school with. It was the way the world worked, and it normally didn't bother him too much; he himself was hard pressed for time to spend with his own siblings and their children -- even the ones living in London. Attending Paul's concerts was a treat rather than a regular occurrence, and he was more likely to encounter the others at all-family gatherings back in Buckinghamshire than in the city. It was a standing joke between him and James, how seldom they met otherwise, even though James lived in Camden Town and sang in the choir of St Pancras. There was no bad blood between them -- simply lack of time and urgency. 

As he entered the museum and walked through the massive entrance hall towards the stairs, Will sighed both in relief and regret: relief at being indoors at last, and regret at how bloody _lonely_ he felt now that the rain and the trees had combined to remind him of Bran. There had been a spark between them during his two sojourns at Clwyd Farm -- a connection that Will had sometimes fancied he might find with someone else, but never had. He didn't think of it as love or lust -- after all, his voice hadn't even broken until a year or two after that final battle with the Dark -- but over the years, he'd sometimes felt as though he was starving for something he'd never even tasted. He'd attempted to assuage the craving by answering it with ordinary distractions, including a fair amount of reasonably satisfying sex, both with women and men. There had never been the right click, however -- plenty of pleasure, but never the sense of feeling truly sated and safe and _known_ after all had been said and done. After a while, Will had resigned himself to the fate he'd feared all along to be true: as an Old One, he was doomed to long for that kind of connection without finding it. He'd met no one with the right combination of arrogance, beauty, and generosity both to keep him fascinated and make him feel needed, and he didn't dare delude himself into imagining that the spark between him and Bran had been anything more than two odd boys bonding over a dire quest during two long-ago holidays. There were times like these when Will missed Bran _terribly_ \-- he was glad his face was already damp from the rain -- but he wasn't about to impose on grown-up Bran in any way: in his experience, there were few things more awkward than fielding a conversation with someone who deeply cherished a shared history your memory had already discarded. He knew better than to make that mistake with Bran -- especially since the Bran he so vividly remembered had always been about moving on toward wherever he felt he was supposed to be.

The Level 2 Gallery took Will wholly by surprise.

He hadn't glanced at any of the museum's posters or brochures prior to heading upstairs, and lost in his thoughts, he hadn't consciously paid any attention to the signage pointing to the exhibition there, other than to steer his feet toward the room in question. So when he stepped into the gallery and saw the name "Bran Davies" on the wall, his immediate instinct was to doubt his eyes. 

_I've been alone too long. Now I'm seeing his name everywhere I look._

Will blinked hard, but the letters remained on the wall in front of him, indelibly and stubbornly real. He forced his eyes to travel down to the biography and artist's statement underneath, and if he'd suddenly gone mad, it was with an admirable thoroughness, because the birth year listed, that matched Bran's, and the summary of a life lived mostly in Twywn and Swansea, that lined up with the miscellaneous bits he'd heard from Aunt Jen via his mother. Bran, too, had become a schoolteacher (Will's memory flew back to that long-ago first meeting, and the impromptu lesson in Welsh pronunciation . . .), but he had apparently devoted his evenings to creating handmade books. Books strange and beautiful and compelling enough to catch the attention of important collectors, critics, and curators. Will mentally made a note to ask his brother Max about the exhibition: he'd never mentioned his friendship with Bran to Max, and there would have been little reason for any other member of the family to discuss it, so Max would not have known about any connection between Bran and Will. Max probably knew of Bran, however -- he kept up with things like artists the Tate considered good enough to feature. 

And the books were indeed good. Will slowly circled each glass case, studying each intricate creation. They were almost like sculptures that happened to include pages, and the pages themselves weren't ordinary rectangles of paper and ink -- there were pop-up trees and mountains and ships emerging from their folds, and torn maps and bloodstained letters peeking out from half-hidden pockets and secret flaps. The covers ranged from embossed leather to faded scraps of tapestry to explosions of feathers and nests of neon-coloured wool. It was gorgeous work -- some of it lush and romantic, some of it reeking of cynicism, some of it simultaneously humorous and creepy (were those really cannibalistic sheep on that cover--!), and much of it a complex blend of all those modes. Will couldn't tear his gaze away from the piece in the very centre of the gallery: a long, accordion-style book, opened such that its first six panels were on display. It was in the format of a timeline, but no timeline Will had seen up to the present had featured so many literal gaps: there were holes and gashes and pockmarks across all the pages, some of them oozing simulated drops of blood and tears, and others half-stitched closed with needles and embroidery floss, as if someone had half-heartedly tried to mend the wounds inflicted upon the parchment. 

"When I first designed it, I meant for it to be a reproach" a Welsh voice softly said.

Will whirled around. Bran Davies was leaning against the wall next to the entrance of the gallery, his arms folded and his mouth in a not-quite smile. "Will. It _is_ you. I was almost sure, but all the grey--" He motioned to Will's hair.

Will smiled ruefully. "I've been teaching teenagers for over twenty years," he joked.

Bran suddenly grinned. "I handle it better than you, eh?" His hair was still pure white.

Will's smile widened. "It means, when _my_ hair goes white, I'll be regressing to your level."

"Arse," Bran replied, laughing. "Thirty years since I saw you last, and that's what you have to say to me?"

Will spread his hands as if to reply, _What am I supposed to say?_ , helplessly grinning himself. The next thing he knew, he was in Bran's arms, clasped within a fierce embrace.

"Will. _It has been too long._ " Bran sounded as though he was trying to keep both voice and body from shaking. 

There was a lump in Will's own throat that he tried to ignore as he managed, "I'm sorry.... It's all beautiful, I should have come sooner."

Bran thumped his head against Will's, his laugh perilously close to a sob. "I don't even know why I want you to be sorry. You didn't owe me anything. You don't owe me anything. I don't know why I'm so glad to see you now -- but seeing you makes me want to make a new book --" Bran suddenly cut himself off, his face flushing. 

"What's so wrong about that?" Bewildered, Will wrapped his arms around Bran, returning the hug he'd received with equal ferocity. "You're a book artist. Making books is why you're here."

Bran's laugh had a hopeless tinge to it that hadn't been there before. "I'm not normally inspired by people. When I feel driven to make a book because of someone, it's because I'm either unspeakably angry with them or because I want them."

Will drew back, staring at Bran. "Are you angry at me now?"

"I'm not sure," Bran said, his brow creased. "I can't remember anything you've done that I ought to be still mad about." His gaze flickered beyond Will's shoulder to the timeline. 

Will could barely breathe. "Does that mean you want me?"

Bran's eyes were challenging, but his voice definitely shook as he replied, "It depends. Was I about to make a fool of myself?"

Will said, "We need to get out of here _right now_."

* * *

The ride to Islington is a blur. He and Bran don't touch each other -- they're both over forty now, and they have _some_ sense of dignity to preserve, at least in front of the other passengers, so they make each minute march past the next with small talk about where Bran obtains his supplies and the last time Will sang in a choir and the classes they are each teaching this year. The instant they're inside his flat, however, they are all over each other -- Bran's hands yanking down Will's trousers without preamble, Will pressing open-mouthed kisses all over Bran's chest as his palms map over Bran's ribs and thighs and groin. They stumble towards the bedroom, unable to stop their hands from stroking each other everywhere within reach, lips and tongues greedily teasing and tasting each other. There's the squeak of bedsprings and the squish of lubricant and then Bran is inside Will, his entire body hard and proud and born to command as he clutches Will's hips, driving himself into Will with punishing thrusts. 

Will has never been fucked like this before -- has never taken anyone home who was already under his skin the way Bran is -- has never known anyone so nakedly intent on owning his body in the way Bran has taken possession of him. But neither is Will anyone's meek little sub, and his own muscles are taut with effort: he can't push back, not with Bran pounding into him so fast and so deep and so satisfyingly, viciously hard, but he can refuse to yield until his whole body surrenders to bliss, and he can feel and hear Bran's delight in both his resistance and his pleasure -- strength meeting strength, passion matching passion. 

Bran's climax is close behind Will's: his white hair dishevelled and his face shining, Bran cries out and collapses onto Will just as he's sliding into a haze of post-orgasmic contentment. They rest like that for a while, each trying to catch his breath, both stunned at how suddenly their worlds have spun back into the same orbit. 

Will finally ventures, hesitantly, "Still in the mood to make a book?"

He can feel Bran's mouth curve against his shoulder. "There'll be a new _library_ by the time I see you next. I won't be back in London for another month."

Will mentally reviews his calendar. Going to Wales -- that's not a trip he can make every weekend, not even for Bran. Not right now, and it's not as if Bran's expecting him to. They both have work that matters very much to them, and callings even more profound than their career responsibilities. A phrase Merriman once said to them -- _there will be other work for us to do elsewhere_ \-- floats through Will's mind with the cadence of both a curse and a benediction. Merriman hadn't been speaking of Bran -- he'd been talking only about the Old Ones and the Light, about their work with the world being done -- but Will is not done with this world, and here is Bran, and it's as if he's finally made sense out of a page he'd kept reading and rereading before to no avail.

Will rolls over and gathers Bran into his arms. "Weekend after next, I could come down. Would that be all right with you?"

Bran's voice is cool and calm, but his fingers press possessively against Will as he answers, "I'll just have to work harder during the week, so that there's time for that."

"The same goes for me," Will points out, his hands caressing Bran's back. 

It's not as if thirty years of silence have instantly melted away. There will be things they each never share with the other: Will isn't going to talk about his former lovers or being an Old One or the memories Bran relinquished the right to keep, and it's clear that, his devotion to bookmaking notwithstanding, Bran hasn't been living like a monk since Will's last visit to Wales. Will is already pretty sure that he will never be welcome in Bran's studio -- at least, not when Bran is actually working on a book: Bran will always need a place that remains free of Will, the better to slice and stitch and hammer his own secrets into submission, whatever they happen to be.

But that still leaves plenty of books to peruse and discuss -- both the ones Bran has made and the others they will discover they have in common -- and there will be suppers at the same table and concerts that they can attend together. Will gazes into Bran's eyes: they match the colour of the birch leaves outside the Tate Modern. They are glinting with a clear, calm confidence Will hadn't seen in them earlier -- not the defensive arrogance Bran has worn as his personal armour since they were children, but something more clean and far more happy. 

"Will. _Cariad_ ," Bran says, gazing steadily back. Instead of saying more, however, he pulls Will's head down so that their mouths meet, his left hand reaching down to wrap around Will's cock. 

Will's hand follows Bran's, pushing Bran's hardening length into their joint hold. Bran breaks out of their kiss with a gasp, gulping down a lungful of air. The happiness is still in his eyes, but now there is also a wildness -- a fresh surge of the desire that had gripped them before. 

It makes Will giddy, seeing that. He is breathing almost too fast to talk, it all feels so good -- Bran's eyes, their hands, skin so hot and slick against skin -- but he manages to whisper, "I am never going to get enough of this."

Bran's smile is at once both warm and sharp, and full of promises not yet spoken. "I am going to give you all that I can." 

 


End file.
